


2014

by arienai



Series: Ad Infernum [2]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7908763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arienai/pseuds/arienai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We are the Pilgrims, master, we shall go always a little further:<br/>It may be beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,<br/>Across that angry or that glimmering sea.<br/>White on a throne or guarded in a cave<br/>There lives a prophet who can understand<br/>Why men are born: but surely we are brave<br/>Who take the golden road to Samarkand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2014

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as the epilogue to _Ad Infernum_ , but didn't really suit the tone. If you like it, feel free to consider it the ending to that fic, but if you don't, just consider it _Ad Infernum_ 's Portable Ops.

When you awaken and the world outside your window drifts on the same as it ever did, you know he's dead.

Yourself, you feel better, stronger than you have in decades; though what you are disgusts you. A macabre golem cobbled together from parts stolen from your own would-be children. A patchwork collection of their younger flesh. You would never have wanted to be Zero and the Patriots' touchstone, but you wanted this unlife even less. Perhaps, if you'd let Eva closer to you, she would have known that.

Known it; but done anything about it? She was always a woman with her own goals. Her own mind.

Though you're not surprised that Adam retreated into his. You might have done the same.

There's nothing he needs to tell you that his actions haven't already spoken. He's left a CD for you; all that's on it is his voice, reading the rest of the book left unfinished when you burned. The bone dry mid-western heat whistles through his drawl like shifting sands of Afghanistan, a tantalizing taste of precious years you thoughtlessly lent to a man who didn't love him.

You'd regret it, but what could you possibly have done differently? When could you ever have walked away without dooming everyone that followed you? As if that would have worked; they wouldn't even let you _die_. How would giving up have improved any of your outcomes?

When it's over you wash your face. Then get dressed for one final mission.

No one will ever write about this one. It will feature in no histories, military or otherwise. No one supports you or watches you from afar when you infiltrate and destroy the last vestiges of the Patriots. Dismantle all of their servers and all of their backups. Blow their caches of advanced weaponry and torch their labs, ridding them of every last stolen piece of you. Eliminate anyone who would take up Zero's mantle or recreate his AI. It's easy for you, now; there are no more distractions like fear or worry or hope. You have a decade's worth of blood and destruction on your hands in a few short months by the time you reach Zero himself. Or what was Zero. Alive only by technicality. The last nail in the coffin; albeit one that has only sentimental value, now.

You've finally ruined him and his will as thoroughly as he has you and yours.

"Let's go visit her," you tell him, needlessly. You pity him and wonder if he ever pitied you.

He did in Dhekelia, probably.

The cemetery in Arlington is scattered with passersby making their own thankless pilgrimages. You could be any man come to visit the grave of a brother or a son or an old comrade, pushing your father with you. Here of all places the eye patch draws little notice: false and missing limbs abound, their owners the lucky ones. It's almost pleasant. Here lie heroes: something you and he never were and never will be.

"... _Boss_?" A voice, strained with disbelief, from an old woman with gruesome burn scars who has followed you a few paces. You should keep walking, but instinct makes you turn around. "Boss!" She snaps a quick salute. "I thought you were... gone."

You want to tell her there's no need, that you're not commander of anything anymore, but it's faster to simply return it. You remember her. You remember Kaz's arm around her shoulders as he flirted shamelessly with her, a lovely brunette, but not your type. "I could say the same."

"No, they pulled me from the water," she explains and adds, almost apologetically, "I got married after that. Normal life. Kids."

"I'm glad to hear it," you say. And you are. 

She's not the only one. Word travels quickly; to civilians who know you as a Cold War hero, to foreign visitors who know you as the legendary mercenary, to current and retired soldiers who throng to salute the FOXHOUND founder. Some seem surprised when you respond in kind, for reasons you can't fathom. They ask who Zero is and when you reply, truthfully, that he fought in WWII they're awestruck. Painfully young Marines who must have been babies and toddlers when your files were finally unclassified want to take pictures of you with their phones, standing next to you, until a scarred sergeant barks them away. A woman with hijab covering her head pushes through and tells you she's never forgotten that you rescued her father from Soviets. A man insists on shaking your hand; he would have starved to death had you not taken him back to Zanzibar Land as a child - now he runs his own PMC.

It's not what you'd planned, exactly. If this keeps up, reporters will follow. And possibly the police.

One man, middle-aged and refusing to stand down, perplexes you. You're sure you don't know him, for all he's visibly shaken with emotion. You say so.

"No, sir, you wouldn't. I didn't serve under you long," he has to swallow before continuing. "My brother... was the last one to die during the second parasite outbreak. I've served under a dozen officers since you, and none of them... it was... the hardest thing I've ever seen a man do in my life."

That wasn't you, and worse, the man it was isn't here even though he should be. You shake your head. "I think your brother deserves the credit for that."

"I still owe you, Boss. You gave us something to fight for. Let me know what I can do."

You glance over your shoulder at the gathering crowd. "Give me fifteen minutes of peace."

He finally lowers his hand, and marches off to remind the rest of your admirers to show some respect. He's pitifully outnumbered, but some old hands join him, and the Marine sergeant seems bound and determined not to let anyone with a camera past.

"Let's make the best of it," you move Zero quickly away from them, out of sight. 

That's when you see your son try to take his own life.

He's not your son; but in that moment, he is. 

If Adam had survived, you would have tried to live. Tried to walk away and eke out whatever scant years the two of you had left. You doubt you would have succeeded, but you would have tried. Now there's no point: without him, the world is bleak greys and muted browns, not a single flash of red in sight. 

You know that approaching him will kill you, but when you see him try to throw those last few precious years away, with loved ones waiting for his return, you don't hesitate. You do what you should have done fifteen years ago: you disarm him. 

He deserves to know the truth, if anyone does. There's very little wisdom you have to impart, and even less time, but you owe him that much. Let him make sense of the reckless mistakes of the past in the hope that he and his won't repeat them. You watch Zero die, at so long last, and the world grows dimmer.

You finally understand; at least, you think you do. Trying to end bloodshed is futile. So long as people have free will, there will be conflict. So long as some are willing to kill and others are willing to die to resolve those conflicts, there will be war. Yet, it's not hopeless. The number of those who die from violent conflict has plummeted even in your lifetime; your Cold War and all its excesses was fought by those who, like Zero, knew that third World War would be the end of man. Many of the unstable nations you once sold so much blood to in return for weapons, locked in seemingly endless cycles of genocide, are now peaceful and prosperous.

The deterrents of the world sit rusting in their silos under layers of dust, unused.

It isn't perfect, and it never will be. Not so long as humans are free to make their own choices. Without freedom there would be no demons, certainly. But there would be no angels either - no heroes.

No, there are no devils. Only those who would kill for their own gain.

No angels, only those who would risk their lives to defend others.

And men like you, who would do both.

You know that now. Now that the world is fading away into the smoke that curls over your fingers. There is no heaven for you to aspire to, and no hell into which you could fall - you are dust and ash and memories, the stuff of the diamonds a wiser man once made.

But if there _was_ \--

If there was, you know she'd never let you fall. She'd catch you with her strong, sure hands, and pull you back up into the light. She'd berate you right there at the gates. The platform. You pushed yourself too hard, too far; you made mistakes; you can do better. 

But before long a beautiful blond Russian would come to whisk her away, the one she bent back and kissed on V-E Day. She'd tell you to be ready.

You'd leave for the command platform, and Zero would be there, poring over a hand-drawn map, surrounded by men with winged cap badges. One of them would have his arm around Zero's waist, and you'd realize that there's so much you never knew about him, because you never asked. Zero would be young, younger than you've ever known him, and smiling without sadness for the first time that you've ever seen.

"We've planned your route for you, Jack," he'd say, and fold it up for your pocket. "We'll be on comms if you need us." 

You wouldn't have to ask him who: they're all there. Even Eva, who'd laugh in a musical way, incredulous that you ever doubted her.

The helicopter that would wait for you would have three men inside: your pilot, your medic, and the man you loved in another lifetime.

Kaz would be whole and handsome again, and though he'd tell you that he only came because he was dragged out here, the doctor who subtly rests his fingers on his knee would shake his head, letting you know that it was Kaz's idea all along. He'd be wearing his own face, and his medical bag would be beside him, like he'd never forgotten who he was.

"Call us if you need support!" He'd call after you as you fast-roped down to the ledge below. 

"Be careful out there Boss!"

It's the last step before the abyss, where creatures who'd tear children away from their mothers and twist them into things so broken they can never go back to the way they were lurk in the darkness. Where monsters so consumed by revenge that they'd slaughter and experiment on innocents with terrifying weapons feast on the souls of damned.

She'd ride up to you on a white horse while you stared downwards at the petals drifting and disappearing into the void. 

She'd check over your kit and paint your face black with a care that tells you she will always love you, just like his painstaking plans for you did, to make sure that you're ready for the jump. You would do the same for her.

And then the two of you would charge off together, into Hell, to save him.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem is the motto of the British SAS; the troops the Boss fought beside in WWII, and one of whom was Zero's closest friend - and his downfall.


End file.
